By Emily Hoover | ehoover@flagler.edu

The following is a poem submitted to the Creative Section by Emily Hoover. The Gargoyle is currently accepting submissions of creative works including creative writing, fine art, graphic illustrations, multimedia and photography.

By Phil Grech | gargoyle@flagler.edu

Did you hear that? It sounded like the closing of a cave door collapsing into the ground from a cave occupied by a cave dweller. It sounded like a special effect from an Indiana Jones movie. Stick with me now. I’m going somewhere with this.

It sounded like someone was dragging a shovel over the cement. Remember the sound of shoveling snow? The shovel scraping against the driveway? It was like that, but slow it down. Yes, like that, a slow shovel scarily scraping.

Submitted by Emily Hoover | ehoover@flagler.edu

The following is a poem submitted to the Creative Section by Emily Hoover. The Gargoyle is currently accepting submissions of creative works including creative writing, fine art, graphic illustrations, multimedia and photography.

Submitted by Emily Hoover | ehoover@flagler.edu

The following is a poem submitted to the Creative Section by Emily Hoover. The Gargoyle is currently accepting submissions of creative works including creative writing, fine art, graphic illustrations, multimedia and photography.

Submitted by Emily Hoover | ehoover@flagler.edu

The following is a poem submitted to the Creative Section by Emily Hoover. The Gargoyle is currently excepting submissions of creative works including but not limited to: creative writing, fine art, graphic illustrations, multimedia, and photography.

By Phil Grech | gargoyle@flagler.edu

I have a painting hanging up in my bedroom that I found in the trash about ten years ago. People are always surprised to hear that when I tell them because it’s a great painting. Why anyone would have wanted to trash this thing is beyond me. It’s a nice painting and it beats decorating your house with the same Target prints and black light posters your friends have.

By Emily Hoover

My roommate told me that he had friends over while I was gone. This much, I expected. I didn’t expect him to sweep or do dishes, which he didn’t. When I came back to Lincolnville, my world looked the same—swampy. My house looked the same—train wreck. I called my boyfriend to vent about my roommate’s lack of chivalry and hopped onto my bed. I felt tranquil for a moment, until I noticed a piece of chewing gum on my headboard. Shrieking, I rose, movements unearthing an open condom wrapper from unmade sheets. He would do those dishes, damn it!

By Emily Hoover

After ten years in the Navy, complete with ten hour days and even longer nights, Rob simply cannot wake up these days—he is a rock, dead and still. He slams his hands on the snooze alarm multiple times in one hour, grunts when he picks himself out of bed to urinate, lies down in the shower, and falls asleep again. Fifteen minutes before class, he checks his Facebook page and lights a cigarette, stinging my nostrils with an ashy wake-up call. We kiss, exchanging saliva and morning breath before he departs, leaving me to my dreams.

Contributed by Emily Hoover | gargoyle@flagler.edu

It’s amazing to see how easily they are bought by your blood-stained dollars. They’ll sell their soul for a measly $1,500.

Contributed by Emily Hoover | gargoyle@flagler.edu

Confined by its fetus, it waits
beneath sight and sound, it bates.
It surfaces as anarchy, conflicting.
It attacks as poison, constricting.

Contributed by Emily Hoover | gargoyle@flagler.edu

I scrape the circumference of my brain. My acquired knowledge has been encoded and stored. I cannot seem to retrieve the debris from the plastic bag. The stationary monument remains that way. There is no life between the crooked, warped lines.

Contributed by Eliza Jordan | gargoyle@flagler.edu

The color of your v-neck was baby blue. Well, when you picked me up it was blue. I found out later that it changes. Things change I guess, even shirt colors.

Contributed by Eliza Jordan | gargoyle@flagler.edu

His sincere eyes looked my way,
and from then on,
I knew he would never slow down.
I grabbed a pen and drew
“Don’t delay, time is wasting away”
On his forearm as I stopped the clock.

Contributed by Eliza Jordan | gargoyle@flagler.edu

If eyes could lie,
And hair confess,
What would the secrets hold?
One by one,
The secrets would fumble,
Until cruel intentions unfold.

By Phillip C. Sunkel IV | psunkel@flagler.edu

Fingers fumbled with agitated arrangements of large white befuddlement flail to fix the frame
A slight sly touch succumbing to the moving picture of the motion picture of our perfectly pictured life
But picture the fixture that attaches to the slightest sight of this motion picture life

By Phillip C. Sunkel IV psunkel@flagler.edu

Our footprints in the sand mark the direction of a drunken story tale,
Our bodies clenched together to support our inebriated minds.
Another step towards the car only leads to another, and another,